Chapter 5: Place of Increase

A/N: Thanks to you all for your warm reception to the last chapter after such a long hiatus. The story is flowing, and I’m hoping for a regular rhythm to posting updates. Beta thanks to Annie Talbot and to Karelia for your sharp eyes and enthusiastic encouragement.

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“I’m not afraid because of you.” She tilted her head to drop feather kisses along the line of his neck, over the scar he always wanted to hide from the world. “Afraid for you, maybe—afraid for both of us,” she whispered. “Please, just don’t go when you see all the ugliness inside of me. All the need.” Her body had started to shake again, and his hands knew what to do, how to knead the tension from her back, how to keep her flush against him—his heartbeat alongside hers.

“There is no ugliness in you that would ever make me go. None.” He didn’t know how he knew this, only that it was true.

And tonight of all nights, knowing the truth was the first step towards the light.

Even the morning light was muted as it stole through the grimy windows, its tentative touch winding around the witch and wizard huddled together on the worn sofa. Hermione felt it push against her closed eyelids, a silent request to open them and face the day. But she didn’t want to open her eyes, didn’t want to let the world outside rush back in. She preferred to stay right where she was, here where the world was made only of his scent, his heartbeat, and the warmth of his body sheltering hers.

Snape stirred in his sleep and sighed, arms pulling her more securely against him as he adjusted the angle of his head against the lumpy cushions. She’d never have imagined feeling so peaceful waking here, not in the arms of this man. Even years into her relationship with Ron, waking with him hadn’t been tranquil. If they’d argued, as they so often had, her frustration at their perpetual bickering lingered, like smoke in a too-small room. Sometimes just the sound of his voice would make her blood boil. And, in the increasingly awful months before she’d fled, even the querulous tilt of his red-haired head could trigger blinding rage.

She ran her fingertips along the exposed skin of Snape’s hand, the one she’d clung to in the middle of the night whilst the story of her exile tumbled out of her in an avalanche of words. It was always worst at night. Dread’s icy fingers would clutch at her, and there was nothing that could drive the memories away. Last night had been different, though. Last night, when the memories came, she’d let them flow out of her instead of holding them in to batter her.

Last night she’d told him. Had shared one of the worst of the memories with him, and he hadn’t recoiled. He hadn’t turned from her in disgust. She’d told him, and he’d borne it with her.

It really hadn’t ever felt like this, she realised. Neither with Ron nor with any of the men she’d been with since. There hadn’t been many. Only scattered liaisons drenched in self-hatred, leaving her with nothing but the bruises she herself had inflicted.

The light grew stronger, as if lack of formal protest gave it leave to flood the room with its soft glow. Snape stirred again, and this time, Hermione pivoted within the curve of his arm, resting her head on his shoulder. His free hand slipped beneath her shirt to rest possessively on her stomach, thumb absently stroking the contour of her waist. Still half-asleep, he brushed his lips against her forehead, and she nearly gasped at the tenderness of the unconscious gesture.

His eyes opened then, heavy with sleep and as unguarded as she’d ever seen them.

“Good morning,” she whispered, sure her eyes were filled with sentiments she shouldn’t voice even to herself. Waking like this, here, with him, she was as content and as confused as she’d ever felt.

“It may be, at that,” he replied, the hand stroking her belly more deliberate now. His intense expression held her fast, and it occurred to her that no matter the utter insanity of their circumstances and the improbability of being here with this man, still, she’d willingly surrender herself to the velvet depth of those eyes.

The moment stretched between them until a growl from her stomach pierced the bubble, and she blushed. His expression changed, concern furrowing his brow. “When did you last have a real meal?”

“I’m fine,” she said, uncomfortable with the shift in his scrutiny. “I am capable of taking care of myself.”

“Undoubtedly,” he said. “And yet, not relevant to my question.”

For a moment, she saw the echo of the man she remembered. Uncompromising teacher, relentless taskmaster, demanding Head of House. For all that, he must have harboured protective feelings towards his Slytherins, she realised, had to have intervened on behalf of the children in his care.

I am no longer a child, she thought. If I ever was one in the magical world. But the look on his face left no option to refuse.

“I don’t remember what I ate yesterday,” she admitted.

He nodded as he made to sit upright. “I haven’t got much in the larder, but I’ve enough for a decent breakfast.” She wished they didn’t have to get up, but could hardly complain, as he seemed determined to feed her.

“Thank you.”

“Not to worry, Granger. I’ll extract payment in turn.” Only the shadow of a smirk on his face quelled her pounding heart. “You’ve promised me an account of the last decade,” he continued, and she felt only slightly relieved. “The one I missed holed away from the rest of you lot.”

“I’ve kept a record of it,” she said, her hands shaking as she reached for the jacket she didn’t remember shedding the night before.

“Of course you did.”

“Haven’t you?” she challenged. He glared at her, and she laughed. The sound shocked her; it had been so long since she’d heard it, felt it rushing through her like clean water. It felt wonderful to laugh. “You did, didn’t you?”

“If my memory of your… thoroughness serves, your records will be more exhaustive than mine,” he said. “But yes, I did.” He seemed reluctant to rise from the couch, and as she moved to join him, she sensed it too—the darkness edging around them again, its malevolent presence looking for cracks to slip through.

“Have you had no contact with others from the wizarding world, then?” she asked, deliberately sidling alongside him as they walked towards the kitchen.

“Virtually none.” He didn’t elaborate.

They made their way to the kitchen, Hermione following his lead as he unearthed supplies. He didn’t comment on her proximity as they prepared their meal nor when they settled themselves together at the tiny table to eat. In fact, he seemed to make a point of brushing against her as they worked side by side in the tiny space. Once, when he’d crossed the room to search for a frying pan, she thought he was awfully pale by the time he sat back down again to join her, brushing his hand against hers on the tabletop while they ate.

The food was simple, but good, and Hermione felt stronger and more clear-headed with every bite. She’d noticed he didn’t use magic to prepare their food, but the fierce expression on his face when she made to ask why he did things the Muggle way stopped her. Instead, she ate until she felt some energy return and then let her mind wander back to their conversation.

“Being surrounded by wizards didn’t do me much good, anyway,” she muttered between mouthfuls of eggs and toast. “You haven’t missed much.”

“You’ll find,” he said, “that being surrounded by members of the wizarding world often fails to meet expectations.” His tone was deceptively light, but his grim expression reminded her again how long he’d shouldered the burden of his and others’ failures alone.

“Has it been by design?” she asked. “I mean, did you stay away intentionally, or—”

“Or did I make an attempt and find myself unwelcome?” he interrupted.

“Yes. Or… I don’t know. The Ministry told us that escaped Death Eaters had taken your body…” She smiled softly at his snort of derision. “They even held a memorial service for you.” Sparsely attended, but Harry had insisted. “You haven’t said how you survived, but… why didn’t you let anybody know?” she asked.

He sat on the creaky kitchen chair, staring at a point over her shoulder for what felt like a long time, as if the answer might be hidden on the stained wall behind her.

“It honestly never occurred to me that I should,” he said finally. “To be frank, I’d been isolated for long enough to stop considering others in my plans. And as Dumbledore had demonstrated no concern for my welfare, I realised that I had to decide for myself whether I wanted to live to see the other side of the war.” His hand rose to stroke the ragged scars that circled his neck. “I couldn’t tell you why—maybe to spite the old man,” he glanced at her as if daring her to pity him, “but I decided that if I had any say about it, I would live.”

She nodded, and he must have been satisfied with her rapt attention because he continued.

“I’d taken what precautions I could; thought I might be injured—or worse—at some point,” he said, the hand that had been stroking his neck stilling, resting on the faded scars that stood out in the morning light. “The Dark Lord had been using Nagini as his executioner with remarkable recklessness. Prudence dictated that I prepare myself for such an eventuality,” he said. “My own safety had always been precarious.” He was growing paler again, and it sounded as if he were talking to himself, remembering out loud. “The Dark Lord was hardly known for his loyalty to those who had outlived their usefulness.”

She gaped at him, at his bland recounting of a night that haunted her like a vengeful ghost. How could he talk about being discarded like so much garbage as if he were narrating someone else’s story? Didn’t those memories haunt him, too?

“I still dream about it,” Hermione said, her voice choked. “When he just… to you… I mean… I felt… paralysed… Well, mostly.” She trailed off, swamped by guilt at the contrast between her quick conjuring of a container to hold Snape’s memories and her non-response to the blood pouring from Snape’s neck.

“It’s one thing to prepare oneself in theory for an attack. It’s another to face one in the flesh,” he said.

“But you were ready,” she said. “Well, obviously. I mean…” She sighed. “I’m babbling again.” But he didn’t mock her, only looked contemplative.

“It was good enough,” he murmured, and she saw the wince he tried to mask behind the shrug of his shoulders. “I had access to the snake and her venom. I had protected myself from the poison should she strike.” This time, he couldn’t hide his shudder and Hermione slipped her hand more firmly into his, and noticed his pallor improve.

“Anytime I was in the snake’s presence, I cast a modified shield charm along the surface of my skin. It didn’t protect me completely, but it ultimately prevented her from completely severing…” He paused for a deep breath, and only then did Hermione realise she’d been holding her own.

They sat in silence for a moment, memory filling the space between them. She gripped his hand tightly and resisted the urge to rest her other hand on top of it—to marvel at the miracle of his warm flesh, alive, and that the touch of their hands could somehow keep the darkness in both of them at bay.

Grateful. She was so grateful for his foresight and meticulous attention to detail. He had taken care of himself when nobody else would. Nobody had. Not even she; she who had campaigned on behalf of House Elves had left the man who had risked his life for them all to bleed out on the dirty floor of the Shrieking Shack. Why hadn’t she attempted to stanch the bleeding? Couldn’t she have Apparated him to St Mungo’s for help? If only she had used that vaunted brain of hers. Thoughts racing, familiar shame and self-loathing ran like poison under her skin, but before she could speak, he did.

“Granger, you were meant to believe that there was nothing to be done.” His voice cut through the storm brewing inside her. “I hadn’t anticipated an audience, but I would have been rather put out had you spent time rescuing me when you obviously had more important tasks needing immediate attention.”

“I just… stood there while you… bled. I thought I’d stood and watched you die.” The darkness that had been lurking surged forward, flooding her until she was sure she’d drown in it again. She’d failed him; failed herself. Again.

“Yes, and then you rushed off to finish the job you had been set,” he said. He brought his hand to her cheek, barely brushing against the skin, wet with newly fallen tears. “And helped Potter save the world from the most evil wizard alive.”

“When you put it that way, it sounds noble,” she said, bitterness lacing her words. “It didn’t feel noble.” She looked at him and saw her own bleak expression reflected in his. “And,” she whispered, “it certainly doesn’t feel noble now.”

He hadn’t intended to spill out the memory of his last moments in the wizarding world to her over breakfast. In point of fact, he hadn’t given a moment’s thought to how or when to recount that particular story. Perhaps ten year's freedom from the company of others made him appreciate conversation now he had it.

Or, perhaps it was her. There was something about her, or about them, together, that was inexplicable. To begin with, he’d never before experienced an urge this powerful to be near another person. Not even in his most desperate dreams of Lily had desire to be close to her been accompanied by such tangible physical and emotional reactions.

Whatever this was, whatever caused it lacked the taint of Dark magic, but its power was not to be denied.

The tears on her cheeks were cool, and his hand felt hot against her skin. Grief and guilt spilled from her, their venom too much for her to bear.

Nobility, he thought. “That’s the trouble with you lot,” he said.

“Just the one thing, then?” she muttered. He snorted.

“The trouble of the moment, then,” he amended. “It doesn’t have to be noble to be right, Granger,” he continued, schooling her in what any first year Slytherin knew. “You did what you had to do. And so did I.”

But instead of his words comforting her as he’d hoped, a sob escaped her, its harsh sound ripping through him. She thrust her head into her hands, fingers digging into the snarls of her hair.

“What is it? What?” he asked as he reached for her. She was sinking, but he couldn’t let her, wouldn’t let her fall into the abyss. “Tell me,” he murmured as he leaned closer, his own hands closing over hers, untangling them carefully from her hair.

“How could I have walked away from you?” she whispered through the tears. “It’s bad enough that they died… Remus and Tonks and little Colin. I wasn’t there. I couldn’t help… There were just so many of them...”

He’d managed to pull his chair closer to hers and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her against him while she spoke.

“You couldn’t help it that they died,” he said. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“I should have done something,” she said. “I can’t believe that I just left you there. Who cares what else we did?” she rasped. “What kind of person walks away when someone else is bleeding to death?”

And then he felt it again, like a hairline crack in the ether—sooty fingers reaching through, searching for her. Mining the wells of self-doubt and helplessness that had eroded the confidence of a witch once considered the brightest of her age.

No, he thought. Enough. And pulled her onto his lap, seeking bare skin and the relief experience had shown him touch would bring. She shuddered even as his hands stroked her back, soothing the taut muscles there until the tears stopped and she could speak again.

“Why is this happening to me?” she whispered. “Why can you talk about it and be fine, and the minute I do, I…”

“I don’t know,” he said. “But we know more than either one of us did yesterday.”

She huffed. “I know nothing.”

“You’re very much mistaken, Granger,” he said, willing the crispness in his voice to challenge rather than frighten her. “You know far more than you realise.” He paused, hoping—counting on latent pride and ambition to drive her to think.

It took longer than he’d hoped, longer than she’d have needed in her school years, but in moments, she was there.

“Talk of the war makes… it flood me, but not you.” She lifted her head from where it was resting on his chest to look him in the eye. “Is that right?”

“So it would appear.” He nodded, holding her gaze, giving her his unwavering gaze—his faith in her burning steadily in his eyes—as an anchor for when her confidence wavered.

“Touch…” She paused to draw a deep breath. “Touching you, you touching me, it chases the dark away.” He nodded. “That never happened with Ron,” she continued. “But I don’t know why.”

“Indeed. And I have had little occasion to touch or be touched,” he paused, surprising himself with the revelation. “Certainly not by someone magical.”

She blushed, and he wondered if she’d had relationships with Muggle men after her relationship with Weasley soured or if she’d had the kind of infrequent dalliances he’d found with Muggle women. His breath caught in his throat, and he pushed away the image. The thought of her with any other man made his stomach lurch, for all that he knew he had no claim on her, himself.

“It feels, to me at least, like the longer we touch, and… the closer… the better. I mean to say,” she stuttered, “the more the darkness recedes.” She stopped talking, jaw clenched as if that would prevent her from saying something she might regret.

“I concur,” he whispered, brushing his lips against her cheek. “Skin to skin appears to have the most powerful protective effect—for both of us.” She let out a long breath, and he felt her relax into his caress. He, too, felt the dark weight recede, bringing overwhelming relief with the shadow’s retreat. “I’m not certain how long the protection remains once we no longer maintain physical contact.”

“It doesn’t seem to last very long for me,” she sighed. “After just a moment or two it all comes rushing back again.” She shook her head. “How did I walk around like this for so long? After less than a day, I can hardly stand to be two feet away from you before falling to pieces.”

“It’s possible,” he said, “that having stumbled upon this… palliative of sorts, our prior state feels practically intolerable.”

She rested her head against his chest again for a moment and by the time she lifted it her breathing was easier and her cheeks slightly pinker.

“That makes sense,” she said. “It’s been so long since I felt normal… I guess I got used to the feeling. Even though it’s miserable.”

“It’s remarkable what one can learn to endure,” he murmured, wondering when he’d stopped noticing the pain of it.

“I don’t want you to hurt anymore,” she whispered. “You don’t show it, but when we’re like—this, I can feel it.” He nodded, surprised.

“Under normal circumstances, I can hardly feel it myself,” he murmured. “Our… contact intensifies my awareness—for myself as well as you.” He brushed his lips against hers. “And then chases it away,” he murmured between kisses. She was eager, but less desperate than the night before when it had seemed as if the intensity of the pain and its relief might devour them.

She threaded her fingers through his hair, and he nearly purred at the sensation. This time, her touch wasn’t just for herself—didn’t have the quality of a drowning woman grasping at anything to keep her afloat. Now, she was offering her hand to him, for him; this time, she knew that she was not alone in the pain.

Without words, she told him.

With the tender caress of her lips on his, with the sweep of her tongue and the way she yielded to his, she showed him.

He didn’t know how much time went by until they reluctantly drew away from each other, only that with each deepening kiss, he wanted nothing in the world except to stay right there—no matter that the kitchen chair was rickety and hard, and distinctly uninviting. But at last, air became more than a passing necessity, and they rested, her head nestled under his chin, his cheek resting on the unlikely pillow of her tangle of hair as their heartbeats slowed again.

What now? he wondered.

“Well, I can hardly take up residence on your lap for the duration,” she muttered as if she’d read his mind. “Of course, my ability to think improves when I do, but it’s hardly practical.” She hadn’t yet paused for breath. “Not to mention that we still hardly know each other. The fact that you were once my teacher hardly counts, I’d say. Besides, at the time, you were rather a git, even if you’re not—” His laugh stopped her short, and she seemed almost startled to remember that she wasn’t talking only to herself.

“You are feeling better, I take it?”

“What?”

“If you can think about practicalities, and propriety, and our dubious shared history without concurrently believing me either a Boggart or dead, I’d say you were feeling quite a lot better.”

“Oh.” She looked stunned but, in fact, appeared to be feeling significantly healthier than he’d seen her. Her skin had regained a rosier lustre, and her eyes had lost most of their flatness. There was energy crackling about her, and he smiled to himself as he imagined the girl he’d known overlaid by the woman in front of him. He’d barely appreciated it at the time, preoccupied as he’d been, but at her best, this woman would be a force to be reckoned with.

He was quite looking forward to it.

The sitting room was warm, but she was always so cold these days.

The wand in her hand shook, or rather, her hand did. She rarely used it anymore, rarely used magic if she had another option. It wasn’t just that her magical energy in recent years had grown erratic and in recent months, frighteningly low. It was that the taste and texture of her magic had changed.

The first time she’d cast a spell and seen the crackle of gray running through the flash of what should have been pure, white light, she had thought there was something wrong with her wand. The second time, she’d mentioned it to Ron and Harry, who had shrugged it off.

“Happens in Auror training all the time,” Harry had assured her. “They say it comes with experience and maturity.”

Still uneasy, she’d pushed for clearer answers. “But why? Why should the colour of the spell look… dirtier? Have yours changed, too?”

“Course they have, Hermione,” Ron interrupted, discomfort with her questions giving his tone an even sharper edge than usual. “Stop looking for trouble, would you?”

But it didn’t feel to her as if she were looking for trouble, but rather that something troubling had found her. She’d ignored it for a while longer, but when an Evanesco resulted in a grey-black light and a smoking after-image, she made her way directly to Diagon Alley to find Mr Ollivander. He’d examined her wand, the one she’d bought in his store before starting Hogwarts, in the days when magic still felt magical.

”There is nothing wrong with this wand, Miss Granger,” he had said, interrupting her ruminations. “It’s as functional as the day you bought it.” He’d regarded her closely with those large, gray eyes. “The changes in your magic originate with you,” he’d added.

“What do you mean? Do I need a different wand now?”

“You will achieve the same results no matter the wand, Miss Granger. The changes to you—to your magic—will not be remedied with a change of instrument.”

She’d stood there and waited. Waited for him to elaborate, to tell her what was wrong with her. Her eyes had begged him, but when she opened her mouth to ask, he’d turned abruptly away, leaving her alone with her broken magic and her dread.

It had deteriorated bit by bit after that. At first, the worst symptom had been the colour of the spell as it was cast. Like a polluted river, the tint of her magic had grown bleak. Worse, she’d noticed that it had gradually taken more concentration to perform simple spells and that more complex ones had been nearly impossible unless she was at her best and concentrating fiercely.

Like an untrained witch, wandless and afraid, her magic had grown unpredictable, but unlike those years, it had felt as if it were draining out of her, not building with her growing strength. Lately, only the most concentrated effort at spellwork succeeded.

But she was cold and didn’t want to ask Snape to light a fire; she wasn’t ready to tell him this… not yet.

"Incendio!" She whipped her wand towards the hearth, hoping against hope that her first attempt would be successful.

The flames that exploded in the fireplace as if to greet Snape as he entered the room tossed her to the floor.

“What in Merlin’s name are you doing, woman?” His actions, rushing to her, belied his scolding.

“I just wanted a fire,” she said. “It’s a bit cold.”

“Incendio does not generally detonate an explosion, Granger.”

“I know,” she said. “Lately… um…” She fiddled with her wand.

Could it be?

A whisper, and a ball of blue flame ignited in her hands. Not the pastel blue of her days at Hogwarts when she’d conjure her trademark bluebell flames to warm herself and the boys while they prowled in forbidden places. No, this fire was cobalt blue, as deep and resonant as the Hogwarts’ lake on the hottest of summer days. But more surprisingly, it had barely taken any energy to conjure them.

She gasped.

“Out with it, Granger,” he drawled.

“I don’t understand.”

“What don’t you understand?”

“I haven’t been able to—” She sighed. “My magic, it’s not been…”

“It’s not been what, Granger?”

“My magic has been weakening, Snape, all right?” she snapped. “Half the time, I can barely perform simple spells. Even when I’m successful, the result is never strong. Not like this.”

He was silent.

“What is it?”

“Tell me more about your magic weakening,” he said. “Is that the only change you’ve noticed?”

“No, it’s not the only change,” she said. “It’s been weakening for years, but the last few months have been the worst. I’ve started to avoid magic, mostly.” He nodded, and it was only the compassion in his eyes that stopped her from railing at him, venting her grief and frustration at the only available target.

“What is the other change?” His voice was quiet, and she had the feeling that he knew what she would say.

“Its colour,” she said. “The colours are no longer clear. They’re dirty looking, like they’ve been muddied.” He nodded to the bluebell flames still burning in her cupped hands. “They used to burn with a blue—” She swallowed thickly. “Like the colour of Ron’s eyes.” She blushed.

“Show me.”

“No.”

His jaw was tight, and they stared each other down for a moment until he let out a long sigh with a quirk of his lip. “Apologies. I appear to have slipped inadvertently into acting like an arse again.” He inclined his head towards her as if awaiting her permission to continue.

She nodded reluctantly, but with the release of breath, felt her resentment wane. “I, too, am experiencing some of what you describe,” he said. “I merely wish to see, to compare.”

Instead of waiting for her, he drew his wand. Weathered wood, long and austere.

"Accio!" The flash of light was brownish, a trickle rather than a stream of magic. The object from the shelf behind her struggled to obey, finally soaring into his outstretched hand.

He nodded at her as if to say, “You see?” and she gritted her teeth. Concentrating, she pointed her wand at the item in his hand and, before he could object, spoke the incantation.

"Accio!"

The object soared from his hand to hers, and the last thing she remembered before losing consciousness was its searing heat when it touched her skin.